I dreamt I awoke...in Woking...in England
"Woking", I thought, "you gotta be joking!
What was I doing, doin' here in Woking"
I felt like Dr. Who stepping out of the TARDIS
And all the people there they were all looking, they were all staring at me
It was like the whole world was gaping
As if...as if there was something to see
I wondered 'Had my mask fallen and was what they were now seeing, was it something appalling
Could they see the real me ?'
So I started running...runnin' 'cos I thought they were all gunning
Gunnin' out to get me

And I met this policeman, this burly constable
And I said to him "I didn't want to awaken in Woking at all
I just wanted to get back home"
He replied "The last train out of Woking had just gone"
So I ran on
And it started raining... raining and I was soaking... soakin'
Soakin' in Woking
Then I met this sweet little London gal
She said "Cor Blimey where you goin'"
I told her I didn't know...
I told her "Here in Woking I felt like I was choking, that all the walls they were closing in"
I said I'd just been dreaming...dreamin'
But what was the meaning... the meaning
And why had they put me here in Woking
What... what was the reason ?"

"Have you been drinking Love?" she said
"No!" I replied indignantly, "I haven't been drinking, I was just sleeping...sleepin'
But hadn't expected to awaken, to awaken here in Woking
I opened up to her a bit then,  I said "Though I was getting older I was... I was always still hoping
But then suddenly I woke up and found myself here, here in Woking
What was it all about ?"
"You poor darling " she said
(For a moment Woking didn't seem so bad after all)
Then she reached into her purse and brought forth some coppers and offered them to me
I said "No! No! You don't understand... you don't understand...

I awakened from Woking a little after the morning had broken
Still in one piece and still with all my secrets  intact
But sadly
Without any meaning nor any reason.

There was an old person of Woking,
Whose mind was perverse and provoking;
He sate on a rail,
With his head in a pail,
That illusive old person of Woking.

I get her, she writes me,
so eloquently,
”the nub of me; gist, manifested poetic”

one of the many poets I have never met,
one of the many poets, by whom,
I have been suchly, justly, richly and correctly
accused

this mesmerizing judgement,
her-over-easy, mini-essay so succinctly
assaying an accidental ability mine

explodes
a happy passageway to my brain,
a new aperture, the neurons firing at will,
the tormented inquisitor’s unasked question,
how did this happen to me?

rocking the Sunday morn cradle’s calm,
ok, ok, write me, write me,
demands my no longer free will,
utilize the free wi-fi of we fidelty

the bay, surgically barely treading water,
its surface of multitude of small waves
but now an entire ****** expression bidding welcome

the breezeways genteel,
smilingly
invites and push us into its
directionless & tideless soothful embrace,
to the shoreline we goeth,
to watch the occasional crossing vessel intruder,
woking the waters gentle

its white path residual wake foam-formed,
then almost instantaneously absorbed, bubbly bursting,
a history of a million moments awakened,
then, instantly returned to restful sleep,
akin to a newborn’s gurgling happy dreaming,
wiped clean away off to
Peter Pan’s it-never-happened-land

this carnival trick sideline of deep tissue knowingness,
sensing the essence of the who and the whom within,
with no data to go on other than their poetic collection,
the hidden meanings of the spaces and places between
the gene sequencing of their wondrous word-fullness
DNA poetic children, freely given,
and well taken
by me

I cannot explain it well enough, but then
a strayer thought breakaway,
a prehensile comprehension insertion
proffers itself as an explanation
intruded,
and here,
extruded

the perfect world exterior before me observable
thrusts itself through picture windows onto my demeanor,
a ****** addiction of mine, my soul enslaved,
cannot bear to be taken away from

this vista,

which begs me,
bring all those you know!
here, to share, this precious precise nook
where eye insightful incisions elicit poems-by-command

but I cannot, bring you here,

so I see~imagine it better through
your eyes, then
your
gist
is in my stubbed pencil nub, it is
your
poem’s destiny manifesting,
penciled through my scruff edged fingertips,
which-when-then transcribed to paper, to history,
‘tis all you
who writes,
not I

for now
you
are the solitary vessel waterborne,
you,
you
are the captain and I

but a
Samson-nite, burdened, baggaged and blinded stowaway,
hopeless, yet still see-worthy,
with your guiding eyes,  
keeping me to keep
your copyright righted,
onto its course true


7-14-19 9:43am
in shelter, on the isle

I have suffered from Insomnia
all of my life, walking around
aimlessly in soft shoes lest I
disturb the rest of the house
where the peeping dogs lie.

Nowadays there appears to be
a quick fix to almost any ailment,
yet, nodding off until recently
has not been included in treatment.

But that has all changed since
Prince Andrew's discovery 18 years
ago when he had a Pizza Express
in Woking.

Immediately, it was as if he became an
Anglo Saxon version of Rip Van Winkle,
a state of opiated amnesia overcame him,
transported from reality into omissiveness.

A hypnosis became him, everything
before and after March 10th 2001 was
instantly deleted from his mind.

Pizzzzzzzzza Express in Woking is the
ultimate sleep inducer and is now on NHS
as a cure all for those afflicted with Insomnia.

Me doops and me was woking da street in a bomba reggae style
When to me suprise a goodaz said com and ste a wile
Me doops say nii but me says yes
cause how can i refuse "no ***** dress"

Inside her bungaloo i went for da **** but tasted poo
Oh no i say, dat dont taste good, a ****** now i really shuld
Too late she says you got the Klanga!
now i wish i didnt bangha


Me days are long and ful of strife
I lost me kids and me wife
me nips do hurt and so my wanga
Buts thats the life
of a Bomba Klanga

suddenly you didn't matter anymore. Suddenly hellos and goodbyes were just routine. suddenly seeing you was just a way to pass time. A reminder of another different time. where you were all mine and everything was fine But now this is a different time. Loving you is my job and I'm never on time my love is part time and your woking over time and kissing someone else is suddenly not a crime. Remember when we use to call time together clock time? Because with you a second was a minute and minute was an hour I could never get enough of you. With you I spent all of my free time and my spare time. if I couldn't find time I would seek time. remember that time? It was prime time. we would be together all time and whenever I needed you babe you would be here quick time, we loved each other big time but now whenever we text I look at your response time .it went from no time to extra time until I realised texting you was a waste of time and I decided it was checkout time don't get me wrong I got nothing against time but I feel like time was against us all the time.

You are famous to me, but I'm just a cigarette break to you.

It's been a while. My skin still burns when I think of how you touched me. I have permanent bruises in all the places your beautiful hands caressed my body and it still burns where your hot mouth has met my skin. You've done things I'll never forget, burnt holes in my sensitive skin with your ravishing mouth. Sometimes, if I think too much, I still crave your expert touch. I still remember everything. Everything...

~Sunday, August 25th, 2013~

I can feel you watching me. Your red glassy eyes flicker towards me as I switch positions on the couch, blinking at the large TV mounted on the wall. But never the less, I know you're watching me, can feel your gaze on me, and I love it. The amount that I crave your attention is literally insane. I crave to hear you speak, your voice is calm but drives me inwardly insane. You are everything that is attractive, you are everything my boyfriend is not...
    I don't think you know I see you watching me. I lick my lips and blink slowly, turning my head to look right back you. Our eyes, and you, with your greedy gaze, doesn't break the contact. It's like a challenge. Your lidded eyes like a puzzle that mine need to piece together. I cannot look away. I watch as you get up from the floor where you've been sitting, and make your way over to me. Still not breaking our eye contact. I try to keep my mouth from going too dry, my heart from beating too fast. All you're doing is walking, that's it. But. You move behind where I'm seated on the couch and and I feel your steady hand firmly grasp my shoulder, stinging my skin. You bend down and whisper in my ear, breath tickling my cheek. "Come outside with me?" My stomach twinges pleasantly. My mouth does, in fact, go dry. Your breath smells like hard liquor and the sweetest of roses mixed together. I nod slowly in reply to your question, a question we both know is really a command that I could never refuse. Even in... present company. After glancing at your brother, who is watching me with a look like I have just slapped him in the face, I ease myself off the plush cushions of your families expensive couch, and into an unsteady standing position. I follow you out the door and into the cooling backyard. Closing the door behind me, I turn to see you lighting up the blunt you were rolling when it was light out. Placing the bud between your lips, you take in a huge inhale, holding your breath and then blowing swirls of smoke towards the sky, your eyes closed in bliss. You sit down on the old wooden chair, and I sit on it's arm as you pass me the joint. Our fingers touch. The connection is held for too long. My fingers burn, not from the heat... I pull my hand away slowly and put the drug to my mouth. Then, on my second inhale, it happens, "Could you kiss me?" You ask, almost like you're asking me to pass the sugar. I cough, and the smoke escapes my nose and mouth.
"Excuse me?" my voice sounds raspy and quiet. Again, my eyes can't leave yours.
"Do you think," you say, and your face moves closer to mine, so you can whisper to me from only inches away, "that you could kiss me?"
      Again, it's not really a question. I lean forward, so that our lips brush, just the smallest amount, I inhale as I let my eyes fall shut, and then I push forward, and kiss you. Finally. You're rough, right away sinking your sharp white teeth into my bottom lip, but not letting me have your tongue. I can only lick at your teeth begging for entrance, but I can't get what I really want. It's over way too fast. You pull back and look at me smugly. But then... your look changes so quickly from smug to something like concern...you're reaching up suddenly, to run your soft thumb over my lower lip, feeling where you ****** it until blood almost broke it's surface. I let out the breath I didn't know I'd been holding.
"I--You good?" You question, and you seem genuinely concerned. And I really can't think why you should be.
"Fine." I say. My mind feels fuzzy and I hear a buzzing in my ears and I'm craving your rough touch all over again. It's all I can do not to reach out to you, to touch you, your lips, cheeks, your sharp chin, fluttering eyelashes, run my hands all over you. And you know exactly how I feel. As I stare into your light brown, slightly clouded eyes, I know you're going to give me what I want, because I know you want it too.
"Commere baby…" you whisper, nodding in encouragement as if to say yeah, that's right... The corner of your mouth twitches when I straddle your lap, sinking down, my legs wrapping around your muscular waist. Your huge hands snake around my lower back, pulling me that much closer and then you wrap one hand around the back of my neck so that our foreheads are pressed together. And then, as you're pecking me on the tip of my nose with your perfect lips, you ask me. You ask me if this is okay. If what we are doing right now is okay with me. I want to let out a laugh containing no mirth whatsofuckingever. Because of course it ******* isn't! It is so incredibly not okay on more than 100 levels. But, incase you're wondering, here are several that I thought of instantly: I have a boyfriend at home. You have a girl living in the valley. Your little brother, the one who brought me with him to this very house, is in love with me and everyone knows it. Your little 15 year old brother's worst fear is happening right now. What I told him would never happen because I cared about him too **** much. This is so not okay. But maybe...maybe that's why I love it. And I need it so baldly. I have been patient. I have waited. I have wanted this for too long. Wanted you even before the first time we met when you held out your hand, white sleeves of your sweatshirt rolled up to reveal your soft skin, to shake my quivering one at the studio, three months ago. I didn't know I would ever feel that same, soft, tanned skin, those long, smooth fingers on the back of my neck, on the hot skin of my lower back. But I am. And right now, it is my job to make you feel good. I want to. So...Is this okay? I smile.

       "It's perfect." I breathe, because right now, with our foreheads pressed together, with our eyes connected in ferocity, with our bodies so close, it is so terribly perfect. And that is all the implication you need. In one soft movement, you slide your fingers from the back of my neck to my chin, tilting it upwards, allowing our lips to meet once more. Our mouths smash together, my breath catches in my throat as you take that same hand and run it through my knotted, wavy hair, ******* a handful as you let your warm mouth open, and finally allow my searching tongue to explore. But my dominance is short-lived, because I feel your tongue begin a battle for power with mine, and I give up and sigh into your mouth when I feel your teeth woking at my lip again. Our tongues dance, playing roughly and ruthlessly and I grind down on top of you, squeezing your waist with my thighs.

      But as I do that, you pull away.
     "W--Please...!" I choke, grabbing for the back of your neck, trying to let my lips catch yours again. But you have something else on your mind. Pushing my hair from my neck, you sink you teeth into the sensitive area behind my ear, licking over the bite, only to press your lips to the soar spot again. You're mouthing at it, ******* and biting as you overwhelm me with your ******* expertise. My breath falters. Your fingers are crossed behind your back, as you breathe your pretty lies into my neck. You're so beautiful...so fit...you're like a little feather...so gorgeous, precious, perfect little body...I need you...I want you...have to taste you...(Myname). Let me taste you. And I actually moan aloud. It's an accidental sound that escapes through my slightly parted lips, but it's filled with this deep need that consumes me so thoroughly. And my little sound shoots straight through your body, down your spine making you shiver. I can feel you growing under me and I grind down harder onto you, because I need to make you feel good. My hands are on your shoulders and my back is arching toward from you, your lips attached to my neck, working down lower and lower until your mouth reaches my collarbone. When you sink your pearly teeth into it, I gasp and continue to grind down onto your lap, letting your big comforting hands snake their way under my cotton shirt and explore my bare back. I, in turn, give your firm shoulders a quick squeeze before releasing my hands, only to grab the hem of your sweatshirt and pull it roughly over your head, leaving just your think red T-shirt, whose sleeves stretch over your bulging muscles. I attach our lips again, letting you tease under my shirt, letting you **** and bite at my puffy, kiss swollen lips. But for you, this isn't enough. If I wasn't lying to myself, I would have known this wouldn't be enough for you since we first began. You absolutely crave the feeling of pushing boundaries, know that maybe, if you try hard enough, you can get whatever it is that you want. And you're whispering to me again, biting my ear, ******* my throat...
     "Come with me baby. I need to taste you. Let me *******..."
     I let out an audible breath into your shoulder, but this time it's finally my turn to pull away. I look into your eyes, which seem to be slowly clearing as you stare intensely back at me, licking at your plump lips, raising your eyebrows in the smallest of questioning looks.
      "What is it baby? You all right?" Your voice is low, hoarse, concerned, but still, coated with sugary want. I literally need you so much right now that I cannot even stand it. I find my voice.
      "It's--I'm fine...It's just--" And as I look into your dark eyes, I cannot tell you anything but the raw truth: "It's that I haven't done this before." I whisper, so quietly I can hardly hear myself say it. You do though, because for a split second something that I can't quite place flashes across your face. But in one swift movement, whatever it was that clouded your mind, you brush away as you pull my shirt over my head, revealing my plain black bra. And now It's all I can do not to wine out loud at how much I carve contact, full contact, for us to be pressed, chest to chest with each other. And you're muttering to me again.
    "Let me take you inside, take you to my room, make you feel so good, feel so amazing like you deserve. I wanna be the first to make you feel the best you've ever felt. I wanna ******* babygirl, let me."
     I cannot believe you said babygirl. Another boy flashes through my mind. I squeeze my eyes shut, trying to block him out. I've never been able to do that very well. Self control never has been my strong suit. **** this.
    "Yeah," I breathe, "yeah, make me feel good. **** me." And really, I know it must have been the 'babygirl' that did it for me more than anything. But how were you to know? When you say it, I'm done. So ******* done. And I need you now. In this moment, I need you more than I've ever needed anyone in my whole entire seventeen years of living.
     I let you lift me up like I weigh as much as a bag of snowflakes, while my shirt lays forgotten on the ground, my arms around your neck and my legs wrapping around your beautiful body. As you push through the door back into your warm house, I bury my face in your neck breathing in your delicious smell and knowing in my whole body what's about to happen. Next thing I know, I feel myself land softly on your bed, in your bedroom, your shirtless body looming gracefully above me, with the most ******* ****** song (Kiss Land by The Weekend) playing in the background. (JAKE: THIS SONG WAS ACTUALLY PLAYING GOD HELP ME) I have to touch you, I think to myself as you lean teasingly over me. But as I reach out, you pull back, just letting the tips of my fingers graze your soft stomach muscles for barley one second and I don't think you understand how you're taunting me. Its like you've just lit up a cigarette in a closed elevator and I'm trying to quit my addiction. I have to touch you. But then again, of course you know what you're doing to me. You're a ******* expert.
      "Close those beautiful eyes baby." You whisper, still just far enough away where I can't quite reach you. My body literally shivers. Before I do as I'm told, I look up and down your body, biting my lip to stop from doing... I don't know what. Making sound? Licking my lips? All I know is I'm biting it so hard that I'm almost drawing blood. I can't show you how much of a weakness you are to me. You're standing above me as I lie on the soft, red, masculine smelling sheets of your bed breathing like I just ran a race against a cheetah. I can't keep my eyes open any longer, it's like you staring at me is hurting my eyes and forcing them shut. As I let my eyes flutter closed, I feel you lean down and place your hands on either sides of my head, moving yourself into a position above me, but still not touching me. Our faces must be inches apart because I can feel your hot breath. I jump when your finger brushes my bottom lip, making me release where I've been obsessively chewing it. And then, you place your cool palm on my stomach, painfully slowly dragging it downwards until it rests on the zip on my jeans, and as your fingers scrape down my stomach, as you touch me, it feels like you're cutting me open with a jagged piece of glass. It hurts when I look at you, and it hurts when I don't. But at the popping of my jeans button, my eyes instinctively flash open again. Breathlessly I watch your thumbs hook the belt loops of my jeans and pull them down, all the way to my ankles. And suddenly, I feel your hot breath on my stomach. You're so close. And I need you so bad. And your hands are running delicately up and down my thighs. But you're not giving me what I want, because you're so ******* cocky. Maybe it's because you know how much I want it. As and your breath ghosts lower, I take in a shuddering breath...and whimper.
     "Yeah?" you ask, "you want it?"
     "Yeah," I reply, because I do. So much that I can't say anything else.
     "Then tell me how much." You whisper, your breath right on me, making me try to push my hips up off your bed, but your hands hold me in place. How do you know you're supposed to say that.
     "Hmmm...How bad baby? How bad do you want it, huh? How bad you want me?" Your voice is like the smoothest silk, like velvet, like cream. I didn't know this kind of thing happened in real life. Something so perfect. But this is real. This is really happening. You. You, in this moment, want me. Just like I've been wanting you. So I open my mouth, speaking as calmly as I can, and I tell you just how ******* bad I need you. How I need your mouth on me and how I need you to taste me... otherwise? "I don't think I'll be able to be quite so good...if you don't-- take me right now. I need you so bad...So bad." And then, you look up at me. Our eyes meet. And you say one more word.
     "Beg." You breath, pressing your lips to me and saying it again, "Beg."
     "Please..." is all I can say. And finally, you rip away the unneeded layer, and take me. Your tongue is slow and languid and you're an expert at work. And it is the best feeling in the world when my body shudders, my toes curl, my back arches. And all the while, you're telling me how good I am. How you don't deserve me like this. You're thanking me. And it doesn't make sense. I should be thanking you for the best ******* ****** of my life. But I can't even move...and as you brush your tongue over me again, my body shudders violently and I let out a soft cry trying to twist away.
    You crawl up my body.
    "Wanna taste?" You whisper. I lean up and meet our lips again. You taste amazingly sweet with just a hint of liquor left. But I can still feel you hard against my leg and it's you who needs it now. I let out a little wine, trying to reach down for you, and you understand. Smiling like you mean it, like you know how good I'm trying to be, you move to my entrance, tracing it with your ****.
    "Wait." I whisper. You continue your slow teasing, but I know you're not going to do anything I'm not ready for, really. "I'm scared." I breathe.
    "I know bab

I used to dream of bidding you farewell
And wishing you on your way
"Goodbye, traveller, bye for now"
I'd force myself to say
But somehow you persisted
Punching thoughts out of the way
Ambling to the forefront of my mind every day
Almost real
Almost there
Until the moment
Somewhere
On a train between Woking and Clapham
When a new journey had begun
I grieved no more for melting snow
I worshipped the sun
And I let you go

Seems endless, the news,
same old same old, still,
the front rows of societies
woking classes, listen to the
repetitious choruses in echo
chambers of daily tabloids.

What The Sun says, editorial
comments containing no word
longer, or more confusing than
one finds in the quick puzzle
crossword, designed especially
for the elbowed moving masses.

                  <>

Irishman and I form circle in
the garden. (answer 5 letters)

              PAT  I  O

The wagons have circled,
lights switched off, it is
pitch dark at the Palace.

HRH has enforced a curfew
on all members of the family,
nobody enters or leaves,

With the exception of John
Bercow who was brought in
to order order take away's.

Pizza Express Woking was
nominated the outstanding
title of Purveyors to the Queen.

Meanwhile, it has been noted
that Virginia Roberts is now a
courier girl. For Deliveroo™.

It has yet to be seen, if she will
be permitted to serve Andrew
his favourite Pigs in Blankets.

Her Majesty adores Dough *****
whereas, Prince Philip simply
loves to get stuck into La Reine.

before i might launch into an armchair of a paragraph...
no... nothing of the sort...
r.em.'s song: nightswimming... i have my own
version of ulterior events: nightcycling...

i'm not much of a lyricist...
nightcycling: such nights are all but forgotten...
how i miss the traffic
how i don't miss the traffic...
how my face isn't in need of being washed
since there's so little sandpaper debris on it...
there was never going to be a photograph...
the moon was perhaps almost always
a glass-is-half-empty: most certainly a frozen
biscuit: a pretend-tooth that's
glazed with a shy colour: a hue of diluted
sepia / wheat... yellowish as bone allows...
or antiques...

          nightcycling... hardly years from now...
or even days... it makes so much sense to be alone
that it doesn't even bother me
to sometimes wish i wasn't
when i know: that if i wasn't...
i'd be pulled toward wishing i was...
i don't want to feel that sadness:
that claustrophobic energy of having to
chain myself to... at best all the *** at worst
all that... anaemic conversation about:
how we might be the best, better: couple...

a sensation like no other...
perhaps if one were to kiss bone...
or perhaps like biting off
the ends of chicken bones
to get at the marrow
once all the meat and sinew has
been munched off: almost
slurped... most certainly
bitten: subsequently gnashed...
- eating frozen blueberries...
                 till the tongue turns
blue till the tongue is numbed
till the teeth start to itch (which
is of course impossible)...
but words make it possibly... eh... maybe...

it was raining throughout the day
and... i had to wait for the night
before i cycled...
in between...
   i made... raspberry... ice cream...
the classical way, using egg yolks because
i have no fear of salmonella...
at worst: i'd get my intestines cleaned
out with some diarrhoea...

such a simple recipe...
2 cups of double cream...
1/4 cup of milk
1/2 a cup of sugar...
heated up...
5 egg yolks beaten... 1 cup of the mixture
mixed with the beaten egg yolks
at 165°F... then all together...
12oz of raspberries blitzed up...
sieved through so the seeds would
not agitate... 1/4 cup of sugar
and some vanilla extract...
mixed together... with the cream
chilled in the fridge for 2 hours...
then into an ice-cream machine to churn for...
roughly 40 minutes...

later... two small brownie slices
and this... "ambrosia"...
if it rains... might as well make some ice-cream...

- i don't want to fall in love... ever again...
it's not that i'm hung-up on an ex...
come to think of it: i'm hung-up on myself...
what a lot of love wasted on someone
so rotten...
i wish i was myself the time i fell in love:
tender, young, naive...
then again: perhaps not...
i don't want to be a father
i don't want to have this responsibility
hanging over me like Damocles' sword...
cut the curtain... and the violin strings...
i don't want to be weak: dependent on someone:
i don't want to share my autonomy...
i'm growing tired of the idea of love...
i like to keep it very... formal...
perhaps no one is gesticulating or pushing airs
of 'yes sir'
         'no sir'... perhaps i'm not gagging to be
a well tailored waiter...
i'd shoot those lazy-***** who order shopping
on that metaphor of kangaroo...
bucket-list to-do:
don't ever place an order: go to the shop yourself...
******* pickled brains...
break each limb into pieces:
throw the torso into the pool... hope that it might
swim...

the wind blows from the south...
i stand in a cricket field on top of Havering-atte-Bower
and look at the great span of horizon...
there's Kent... there's ol' Thames...
my eyes are eating the distance apart...
to nowhere...

- well... if you put it like that...
scribbling: i was cycling at 30kmh...
suppose i was cycling quicker...
the metric units inflate the achievement...
while imperial units... deflate it...
it's only 18mph...
the metric system loves zeros:
0000000000000000000000000000000000
the imperial system: quirky...
loves decimals of Pi...

what a lazy night...
what a lazy of writing...
nightcycling...
something must have happened...
so few girls on the town partying...
did something happen?
did their income source dry up
or something?
i've had eyes of women clamour onto me
like they might...
give me ******* while simultaneously
circumcising me...
or pecking at my liver...
that's why... at the Turkish barbers...
it's almost like going to a brothel...
but when getting my bush-whack of a beard
trimmed... i close my eye while
the barber does miracles with a blade
tendering my neck...
eyes wide open... when ******* is performed...
since... well... that "hole" has teeth...
it might be pretend-oyster in the act...
but it's also a mouth that bites...
salivates... breaks up large chunks into small
chunks...

love... yes... at the brothel...
i like that sort of love...
i'm happy to not end up being an old man
who still has presumptions about:
the nobility of swans...
it didn't require either Darwin or Copernicus
to find out... the birds...
you will never see crows
gagging for it... you'll never find crows
asking for voyeurs like pigeons gag...
the crows do their funny... morbid b.d.s.m.
at night... no one's ever looking...
the pigeons? in full sight!

why i get a full glare of... pigeon courting...
i'm seeing... niqab clad ravens take:
"second purpose"...
not to mention... a... widow and widower swan...
my... how... they coupled...
never mind Rod Liddle...
i don't like the way he writes:
but god... i love how he speaks...
i don't very much like how i think:
that i perhaps think: at all...

my libido suffers from strobe-light
insomnia i dare call: quasi-epilepsy...
my dreams: i have shrapnel...
these buildings seem rigid enough:
it'll do... i don't need to make a broth
out of... bones... no skin... no meat...
i feel a crippling nausea-sickness
whenever dropped into a place like
Warsaw... or somewhere far beyond
the home counties...
like Cheltenham...

               it's oh so... monochromatic...
so... missing arrogant Muslims:
London: loon-bin...
this be, Islamabad... if only Polacks
had the same arrogance...
what an obnoxious lot we could have
become...
ask the Romanians?
the Turkish prostitutes... or the barbers?!

England belongs to the English...
thank you for keeping me: tightly knitted to a tuck...
friar...
you'll have to move aside...
while i make some space for my...
gluttonous... thought...
for several years i stopped seeing skin
colours... i stopped seeing ethnicity...
oh... grand reveal!
some equilibrium antics bringing
pronoun "concerns"...

                    ah ha... a world so tame...
i just want to **** on it...
i'm lazily itching toward "something"...
  look here... see an angst-riddled
existential paragraph...
if the natives can't bring some authority
to the table while the minorities run:
******* rampant...
it's like... living in slow-motion
of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth
being carved up... dissolved..
like the crown of Poland wasn't ever
a ******* of foreign rulers...
because... lineage didn't matter...
a  Duke of Orléans: could be the king of Poland
but not the king of France...
because... ******* of kings...
Poland... was readily giving it her sway of...
"favour"... alas... the fate of keeping
lineage... inbreeding... weakened genes...
pizza antics in... ******* Woking of all places...
silly Andy... willing Andy buckled on
the ginger gal...

nzuri argan oil... supposedly it works miracles
than any... other... recipe for keeping
one's hair looking: prim... intact...
wind-relieved...
better than any hair-gel...
a well oiled crop of hair is better suited
to... daily troubles than...
applying some stiffening agent...
hair like... deep-fried linguine... ugh...

that i believe advertisers more than
journalists...
a Warsaw fountain... someone abandoned
a dog in there... the poor thing was
running round and round...
me and ol' Joseph...
testing me? my mother takes centre stage
when his memory sparks...
a pain akin to a cut excites...
a spontaneity...
but a pain that cuts towards
a numbing...

like Tolstoy said: every family is ****** up...
it's almost insensible to curate
the formality of strangers with
all the baggage being... towed...
sinking... me... drowning...
but making raspberry ice-cream..
while it was raining outside...
hanging the washing on the lines:
i was expecting a silenced orchestra: timid
of sparrows...

to hell with the constellation of stars...
just watch what the birds are doing...
last time i heard... cats do not require
leashes...
i wish i could have the sort of audacity
of hands i have with cats:
translated into how women are
treated...
at the brothel... at the brothel...
open a bottle of bourbon: i'm there! sober!
strictly oops in-and-out-of-"it"...

this is not even my land...
one which i might wish to defend...
who are these pseudo-post-Soviets...
the originals i could have cited as borrowing
from pan-Slavism...
although mistook took place
concerning... the disintegration of
Yugoslavia...
if the Germanic people knew how to dispose
of the Hebrews...
the southern Slavs knew how to dispose
of the remnants of Muslims...
ugly affair...

time by now has to escape its own clutches with
a... debilitating: yawn...
pass the pawn... crux... lineage!
pawn... broker...
bishop... tilt! tally the rooks...
shoot the horses dead-centre
before they have a chance to retire from
the races...

that i have a fetish for recycling..
that there's a **** to tow...
that there's a **** to tow...
there's some crippling Gehenna
of corn: baking...
snippet: clue...
   whatever happened to the incredibly
sensibly native people...

like ha'hum?

There is, a Royal heir,
whom Ive met

He can Tango and
Waltz, with no sweat

He eats Pizza in Woking,
when a child he's not poking

Yet he still shows no signs
of regret.

Prince            of          Starkness

Sleep Woking Prince
             walks into young girl’s
room has nightmare ***
                  against her will and
testament. Grisly Maxwell
              will no doubt support
Virginia Roberts via a
       plea bargaining deal soon.


Ps.

Unless she is asked to suicide
and is hidden in Tel-Aviv with
Epstein:

Ha Ha who believed that one!!